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In the absence of barber shops for women, dear lady, I come here for a haircut. You see, I do not want you to touch my eyebrows, no matter how unruly you think they are. I've grown them for 24 years and I'm half in love with what I've grown. Also, it is unlikely that I will kiss you, so do stay away from my upper lip. As for a facial, have you seen your face?
My hair displeases your sensibilities. You see, the day has rummaged through it and left tiny hair strands dangling down my face. In school, it used to be the height of cool. But not so to you, so possessed with a strange desire to straighten human hair. I like my hair: it waves when wet and snakes down my shoulder and on days when I'm pissed, it sits close to my head like a skullcap, looking just as cross as I feel.
Like waiters who make me starve so I order more, you try to make me feel ugly so I will beautify myself more. Dear lady with electrocuted hair, I see through your tricks. You see, on days I wake up feeling pretty, I can warm a cup of tea (non herbal) with my own heat. So it don't matter how many times you turn up your nose at me, I will still warm my own tea.
Why do you stare so? It's a strange stare. Not like men who leer so much that you feel like taking them aside to gently break the news, "There is more to life, dear man, than the bosom of women." Not like women in the ladies' compartment whose tired eyes search your face absently, without intending to stare. Not like children who stare because they must have something to look at. Your stare, dear lady, is the beautician's eye that looks for the slush when the lotus is right before her (the lotus is I, dear lady, if your electrocuted hair has numbed poetry for you). You can see nothing else and one zit on my face (that will doubtless mark me out if I die unexpectedly) drives you insane. I'm not made of alabaster, dear lady, and neither are you.
Yes, I'm tanned unevenly and I'm different shades of brown all over. Have you seen tiramisu? (It's rich in calories and wonderful to eat.) I'm a tiramisu all by myself. If you can't stand it, dear lady, do more of your breathing exercises. And no, I don't want a Platinum Bridal Package the next time I come (for come I must: barber shops for women seem a distant Martin Luther dream). I'm not made of platinum and neither are you. We're both made of skin that darkens in the sun, peels in the cold, breaks out when we want to look awesome, blushes without warning, and wrinkles with the years. I'll not have it any other way. So take your precious metals and bury them.
I've sat on your chair with the white cloth and borne your comments like a friendly ghost. I've said nothing to you about your porcine eyes. I've not laughed aloud at your electrocuted hair. I've sat and stared at myself in the mirror with love. And dear lady, no amount of cucumber pulp can bring that to your eyes. Stop holding your stomach in and eat some tiramisu instead. What makes you happy cannot be bad for health.
What Did She Want To Be?
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